


Oracles

by jvo_taiski



Series: PJO one-shot collection [6]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Fate, Immortality, Implied Sexual Content, Loss, M/M, Philosophy, Prophecy, Youth, apollo is a close friend, hermes has some regrets, the gods are soft, the nature of man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26782684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Hermes has always been good at offering his heart to people with quick fingers and quicker smiles and it hurts just as bad every time.And Apollo’s always been a little like him. He’s also got an unfortunate habit of getting too close to mortals and letting them take and take and take even if he can never give.AKA May Castellan has gone mad, and at first, it's Apollo's fault, then it's Hermes' fault, but in the end, only fate can take the blame.
Relationships: Apollo/Hermes (Percy Jackson), May Castellan/Hermes (past)
Series: PJO one-shot collection [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876507
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	Oracles

There’s a lot of smoke and a lot of screaming, and Hermes can’t see. For the first time in centuries, he’s frozen in shock, paralysed in horror, even though he knew it was coming because _for fuck’s sake May, it’s dangerous—_

But now it’s just green smoke spilling everywhere and _he can’t see._ It smells, Olympus, it smells like his worst nightmares because _Styx be damned,_ she might be a mortal but Hermes has always been good at offering his heart to people with quick fingers and quicker smiles and it hurts just as bad every single time. He’s sure he’s screaming, feels his mortal body burning up, but there are strong arms tightening around his, reminding him that he can’t.

The body behind him is warm and grounding, as the body in front of him spasms in and out of existence, through that awful green smoke spilling from her lips.

“Hermes. You can’t. There’s nothing you can do, she’s gone.”

To his credit, Apollo has the grace to sound a little bit broken, and a little bit apologetic. Maybe it’s on Hermes’ part but in the end, Apollo’s always been a little like him. He’s also got an unfortunate habit of getting too close to mortals and letting them take and take and take even if he can never give.

But he can’t deal with it, not now. “This is your fault.”

“I’m sorry.”

He ignores the god behind him and leans down instead, cradling May Castellan’s fragile mortal body in his arms. She’s broken beyond repair. He doesn’t need to be Dionysius to know that. Her hair spills onto his lap, blonde and free, the strawberries on her blouse looking like little spots of blood. There’s no point hoping for her eyes to open because they won’t be clear blue anymore—he knows he’ll be staring into a void of jumbled thoughts, scary thoughts, broken and violent and angry and chaotic.

But he can’t do anything, except watch Apollo pass a hand over May’s unconscious form—maybe her body will be strong enough to raise a child now, but her mind won’t be. There are some things that not even the god of healing can fix and he knows—Apollo knows. There’s a brittle look in his eyes as he turns away.

Hermes doesn’t look at him as May Castellan’s eyes open and she blinks, confused.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” For her sake, he keeps his voice gentle. “Let’s go home.”

It hurts knowing that he won’t be able to protect her from herself and it hurts even more knowing he won’t be able to protect the boy he leaves in her arms. He hopes Luke won’t resent him when he grows up but knows he can’t blame him if he does.

To be honest, it’s all Hermes’ fault, after all. Him and his stupid heart tumbling over and falling into things that just crumble under his touch.

***

Apollo trudges into his quarters on Olympus three hours after Hermes breaks in. He doesn’t notice him at first and Hermes is surprised.

He’s not in a form he’s seen before—he’s ten feet tall and hunched in on himself, long wings dragging behind him and barely a figure. More like a shadow, of the sun obscured by clouds or of a sad song playing through paper-thin walls. His fingers leave pale lines where he drags them over the wall and it makes the wallpaper look washed-out.

Hades, he looks like such shit that Hermes considers disappearing before Apollo can spot him. It feels wrong and invasive to see him in such a volatile state, which is stupid because they’ve seen each other in moods much worse. But they haven’t spoken much recently and Hermes suspects it’s his fault.

Of course, Apollo spots him before he can sneak away and startles in a very mortal way that stirs something tender within Hermes.

“I’m sorry, I’ll go—”

The wings are gone now, and he’s back to the form he favours with the rest of the world. He’s tall, blonde and has a beaming white-toothed smile that isn’t quite reaching his eyes today, and Hermes hates it, mostly because it’s the only form he’s seen Apollo wear in a decade.

“No. It’s fine.” He speaks airily but it’s tight-lipped all the same. “Did you need something?”

Hermes flounders over his words for a second, not knowing how to say _I missed you_ without actually saying it. So instead he says, “I just felt like dropping by.”

And it’s a fucking lie because if he really was ‘just dropping by’ he wouldn’t have waited in an empty house for three hours.

“Oh. Well. Drop by a different time because it’s nearly dawn and I’ve got work to do.”

Hermes winces, but doesn’t leave. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s it to you? Aren’t gods allowed to have bad days?”

“Did something happen?”

“No,” he says bitterly, but the break in his voice suggests he wanted to say something more.

“Apollo?”

“Sydney died.” He snaps, brushing Hermes away. Even in this form, he’s got dark circles under his eyes. “It’s stupid. Nothing important. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a Maserati to drive over the states.”

Sydney. Maybe a mortal lover, or even a demigod child. And whoever they were, Apollo remembers them just like he remembers ever single other fleeting life he can’t help letting into his heart.

So Hermes sits down and lets him leave before pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes and focusses the little flashes of green that dance in the dark and lets his godly form feel the sting of pain only for a second. If Apollo’s surprised he’s still there when he gets back, he doesn’t question it.

***

May doesn’t even have the sense to break down crying anymore. Instead, she babbles and holds onto his hand tightly, spreading peanut butter on bread with the other.

“I knew you’d come back! Just you wait until Luke gets home, I told him you’d come back, I always told him you loved him!” she beams and Hermes reaches out a shaky hand to smooth a wisp of hair back underneath her bandanna.

“May—”

“Would you like a cookie? I make them for Luke too—”

His words die along with something where his heart should be and he lets her grip his hand and ramble on. _He’s not coming back, May._

“—he’s grown so much, you’d be so proud of him; he looks just like you—”

“May,” he says again, gently.

“You’re leaving again? So soon?” Her eyes snap up to his, suddenly alert and fearful.

“May—”

A peanut-butter coated knife clatters to the floor, smearing the counter as it goes down, and suddenly, there’s a tight grip on the front of his shirt and she’s shaking and pressing her eyes to his chest, flicking up to look at him, darting back down again, so fragile. She smells like chocolate chips. “Don’t go. Not before he comes back.”

Carefully, he takes her wrists and runs a thumb along the vein on her wrist _(her pulse is beating so fast, too fast)_ and she shudders and closes her eyes. He’s expecting it when her mouth starts spewing green smoke and her voice turns raspy and grating and when she seizes the front of his shirt again.

He’s not expecting a gentle hand to reach out from over his shoulder and touch her forehead, and for her to gently sag in his arms as the strain clears from her face.

Hermes doesn’t thank Apollo and it’s not like he’s expecting it anyway. Instead, he swallows bitterly and carries the hollow thing that used to be May Castellan to her bed and presses a shaky kiss to her forehead. He can’t stay another moment.

***

“It’s my fault,” he agonises, pacing Apollo’s living room and dodging the pools of light that spill in from the huge bay windows facing south. Apollo’s standing in the corner, half in shade, left eye hitting the sun just right and glowing an eerie gold.

“It’s not. It was her choice.”

“It was me who fucking told her she was special in the first place, the one who put that stupid fucking idea in her head in the first place. Now she’s unhinged and our son’s left her, probably hating the both of us.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, trying to will the tension away from his shoulders. He doesn’t hear Apollo moving but doesn’t flinch when someone starts rubbing soothing circles on the small of his back. After a while, he melts into it and even lets himself sigh.

“Maybe if—maybe if I reached out? If I was a better father?”

“You couldn’t have,” and his voice is infinitely sad, so different from the uncaring swagger he puts on for the rest of the world. Apollo masks his pain with indifference and keeps love under wraps with an easy smile and a happy-go-lucky arrogance. “You know the rules. What Zeus says. It’s for the best.”

With a snarl, Hermes jerks away from Apollo’s touch and starts pacing again. “Fuck Zeus.”

Thunder sounds and Apollo shifts uneasily but Hermes ignores it. “Is it actually for the best? Is it really?”

“You can’t tamper with fate,” comes the soft reply, then, “I don’t know,” and Hermes wishes he hadn’t walked away from his soothing touch. So he lets out a shaky sigh instead.

“He feels neglected.”

“Don’t we all?”

“What do I do? What’s allowed? I can’t even tell him I love him.”

“I don’t know, man. Send him on a quest. Give him something to fight. He’s probably still angry at everything, and it’s understandable.”

“A quest. Right. Okay.”

Hermes doesn’t notice the crease on Apollo’s forehead before he’s disappeared again.

***

“Do you believe in fate?”

“What kind of dumb fucking question is that? You’ve met fate personified. Multiple times. Mouthed off to all three of them.” Apollo’s in a white doctor’s coat and he looks fond as he looks up from his desk.

Hermes shrugs. He likes Apollo like this, when he’s not trying too hard to be flashy. “I don’t know, man. Not like the fates, like fate-fate. Like everything has to happen. Free will and all that, ya know.”

“Free will? Of man?”

“Yeah, of gods as well. Like do we really choose our destiny or is it all mapped out for us under the illusion of free will? I can say ‘ _I chose to fuck Aphrodite that one time, but what if I didn’t? I could have said no’_ as many times as I want, but like, was it really a choice or was I always going to do it then and there? Because sure, I considered it but in the end I wound up choosing to do it, after all.”

“Wait—” Apollo frowns as he tries to make sense of his question. He’s always been unfairly pretty but Hermes doesn’t mind so much when he’s not making a big deal of it, and he thinks the other god definitely looks good with his blonde hair ruffled and his brow scrunched in thought. “What the fuck, Hermes? I’m a god, why are you hitting me with this existential bullshit?”

“Come on, it’s not like you haven’t thought about it before.”

“It makes my head hurt. I’m a busy god.”

Hermes grins wickedly. “Aw. Too many musical sonatas in your head to fit in some philosophy?”

“I _am_ philosophy; I shouldn’t have to think about it.”

“You’re also the god of prophecy. Are they always set in stone? Does it only work because our futures are already mapped out?”

“Fuck knows. It’s too early in the morning to have an existential crisis. Now shut up kid.”

“Watch who you’re calling _kid_. I stole your cows when I was a baby.”

He lets out an exasperated laugh as Hermes loops his arms around his neck and grins from ear to ear. “Are you ever going to let that go? Besides, I caught you even though you’re supposed to be the god of thieves.”

“Only because that fucker Battos snaked me out. Besides, it was funny. And I invented your holy symbol.”

“The lyre was good,” he admits, leaning back on his chair to meet Hermes’ gaze upside-down—Hermes catches his breath slightly. “And you got a caduceus for your efforts. And Battos didn’t deserve to be turned into a rock.”

“He was more useful as a rock,” argues Hermes, enjoying the way Apollo rolls his eyes in exasperation. He feels lighter than he has in a while, and in the youthful form he’s chosen to take, his dark curls tumble off his forehead and tickle Apollo’s forehead. Sometimes, it’s so easy to feel mortal and he embraces it as Apollo’s gaze dips to his mouth and his heart starts dancing a little bit faster.

They’ve been alive for millennia and close for as long as Hermes has been alive, so of course it’s not the first time they’ve kissed. But it’s been a while and it feels new and exciting as Hermes lets his long-limbed form, just past the cusp of adulthood, collapse onto Apollo’s lap. It’s soft and easy and their lips slot together just as well as they have the handful of other times they’ve done this.

And still, every place Apollo’s hands skim his waist, his ribs, the curls on his head and his face, it all feels like sunlight dancing on his skin. It’s soft and messy and innocent and in the moment, Hermes’ immortal life really doesn’t matter compared to the slight ache of his back, from where he’s leaning down as he straddles Apollo, and the warmth of the solid body under him.

Dawn comes and Hermes laughs as he puts his feet up on the dashboard of Apollo’s sun-Maserati. But even as he’s threatening to drop George and Martha out the window _(“You wouldn’t—we’re a gift from Lord Apollo and he’d throw you right after us.” “The caduceus was a gift from Apollo, you weren’t, Martha! And I will throw you out if you don’t shut up about rats”)_ and Apollo’s giving him a sideways, half-fond, half-exasperated look, he can’t help wondering if he was always doomed to fall in love with May Castellan and if their son was always doomed to host Kronos.

***

 _You were born because of a broken promise._ It seems all heroes come from similar places. He was surprised the Jackson kid chose to refuse immortality but he has his reasons, a notable one coming in the form of Athena’s daughter. Briefly, Hermes wonders if he’d give up immortality for May Castellan but knows deep down that even though he loved her like he loved every other mortal with an easy laugh, he wouldn’t have set his godhood at her feet.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget he wasn’t born an Olympian—unlike his father, Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Hera—even Aphrodite and Athena—he once knew what it was like to struggle as a mortal. So did Apollo. He wonders if he’d ever cast aside his immortality for Apollo and the thought actually makes him hesitate.

In a week, he’ll probably forget the moment, because that’s what gods do. They shift, never in one form, constantly adapting to crest the wave of western civilisation. And in that way, they do not change.

In many ways, it’s impossible for a god to commit to anything, whether it’s a pretty face, a promise of love or an oath whispered over a shroud. The thought saddens Hermes and whatever Percy Jackson said earlier, his heart is heavy. Because no, gods can’t change, just like the human nature never will.

And in a couple centuries, whether Luke Castellan ever loved him won’t matter anymore—maybe it never did. Gods are fickle things, and Hermes will get over it.

***

“To hell with your oracles.”

“Huh?”

“I hate them.”

“Hermes? Are you drunk?” Thankfully, Apollo doesn’t protest when Hermes stumbles into his house again. It’s spacious this time, modern and minimal with a huge, floor-to-ceiling glass window facing south and the just-setting sun casts long yellow shadows across the room.

Apollo himself looks gorgeous as usual, but in this form he’s young and looks almost like a young hero, just out of boyhood, from the old days. His white toga flatters his gold skin and hangs off his lithe figure, and his golden hair tumbles over wide, almost-violet eyes, like the sky at dusk. His long fingers dance over Hermes’ shoulder before gently taking his caduceus and setting it aside. For once, George and Martha are silent.

“Are you drunk?” he repeats, but Hermes doesn’t say anything, just slumps against him beseechingly, begging for something, anything, without asking for it.

“I have to go, Hermes. The sun’s setting. I need to—”

“To hell with your chariot, Apollo,” and he sounds close to tears but doesn’t care. “To hell with your chariots and your stupid face and your gods-damned oracles.”

And he only hesitates a moment more before he gives in and loops his arms around Hermes, a strong and steady embrace, warm to numb whatever’s left inside. For the first time in centuries, Helios flies the chariot over western civilisation while Apollo stays tangled in the arms of a jack-of-all-trades with a broken smile but a quick laugh.

The evening is reluctant to give way to night, almost as if he’s willing the sun to stay there, comforting, for just a little longer, and deep golden shadows swoop over the lines of his body as Hermes coaxes sighs from him that beg for more, that _want_. It’s all they have, really. The small interactions quickly forgotten; the long glances from afar.

Gods don’t need to sleep but Apollo is still in the dead of night and his long, gold eyelashes skim his cheekbones as he rests. He looks like he’s carved of marble. After all these years, and Hermes still finds the sight of the sun god in the dark a surreal experience. A small part of him wishes he could get used to it, even if he knows he never will.

Pale fingers reach down to curl in slim, gold ones and Apollo shifts where he rests when Hermes drapes his arm over his waist.

“I made a poem,” mumbles Apollo.

“If it’s a haiku, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Shame.”

Only later, it dawns on Hermes that Apollo didn’t use a big word like ‘composed’ and wonders if maybe the poem wouldn’t have been so bad after all. He asks, but Apollo’s forgotten already. He leaves, and he’s already forgotten exactly what was so bad about oracles anyway.


End file.
